A Redbreast in a Cage
by Louise24601
Summary: 24 year-old Emma Swann is a student in psychology; when she decides to write a thesis about prison, she discovers a darkness that neither her fiancé nor her parents manage to quell. The deepening of her study will lead her to several encounters with the serial killer who was freshly caught, and who terrorized the State of Maine: the Driveway Ripper, AKA Killian Jones.
1. Initiation

At first, it was all about learning. It was about discovering. Because the third trimester was nearing its end, and most of her friends and acquaintances had already chosen a topic for their thesis. The deadline was coming up, and she had picked without thinking. Prison. Why? She wouldn't be able to answer that, but why not? It seemed as relevant as anything else, and she would at least get a decent mark for originality.

Although her teacher warned her about this and asked if she could meet him in his office, Emma didn't exactly feel worried yet. She had no concrete idea why she had chosen this particular topic for her studies but she felt ready to stand her ground.

If she was given a chance to take it back now, she supposed she would. She really couldn't tell you why she had defended her choice so well, even when she didn't know why she had made it. She probably only had herself to blame.

Doctor Archie Hopper had always seemed like a kind man to her, and when he greeted her before his desk, she could only see slight concern in his expression.

"Emma." He smiled, curly hair peaking out of the sides of his glasses.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"No need to look worried, it's nothing serious. Sit, please."

She complied and folded her hands on her lap. Her golden hair was gathered into a smooth ponytail, and she resisted the urge to fiddle with the few strands that fell free. It wasn't as though Archie Hopper was an intimidating man, her teacher nevertheless, still she had never felt nervous in his presence before. It was because of the thesis, she knew it before he had to say it. _That's_ what made her nervous. She knew that for certain, even though she couldn't explain why in God's name.

"I'll be honest with you, Emma." The man spoke quietly. "It's about the topic you've chosen. Alienation is a vast subject, and although I'm certain prison would be one very interesting way to treat it, I feel that I must warn you."

"Warn me?"

"Don't get me wrong, the subject is difficult to handle no matter how you put it, only I'm afraid the one you chose might be more difficult than others." He continued, serious; this was a warning, no mistakes could be made. "There will be visits involved. I hear the mere environment is enough to change a person. If you want to write about what prison does to inmates, you'll have to meet a few."

"Sir, with all due respect –" A slight chuckle interrupted her words. "I wouldn't have chosen something I can't handle."

"I just wanted to make sure you had thought it through."

"Thank you." She responded understandingly; she did understand.

She understood her teacher's concern, she understood he had to make sure she knew what she was getting into. Truth was, she hadn't thought it through; she had thought that to study prison as an alienation of the mind would make an interesting reflection, and she had filled the paper hurriedly in class because Neal and her and had worked late on wedding invitations. Now she had been summoned into her teacher's office, he wanted to know whether she knew what she was doing, and she didn't. It occurred to her briefly that this was the ideal time to change her mind. This was an open window.

And without understand exactly why, she closed it shut.

"I appreciate your concern, sir," she spoke warmly, "but I'm fairly certain it won't be an issue."

"Certain?"

"Yes. I don't spook easily." She smiled, and her teacher smiled back, but there was still a light trace of worry sparkling in his eyes.

...

"_Prison_?" Her fiancé spoke the word as though it were the first time he heard it in his life.

Emma shrugged innocently, letting her hair loose and removing her jeans before she joined him in bed. A wedding magazine was still laid on his lap, above the covers, but it seemed that the article had entirely lost his attention.

Neal and Emma had been childhood sweethearts, he had been her first kiss and her date at the prom, they had finished high school together then gone their separate ways, and although many of their friends had believed it would be the end of their relationship, time had proved them wrong. She had gone to college in New York while he had stayed in Storybrooke to ultimately become the town's mechanic. She would come home to him every weekend and he would be waiting for her with a sweet from the bakery, a cherry tart, because it was what she had ordered on their first date, at Starbuck. In the meanwhile, marriage had always been the obvious turnout of their relationship, the ultimate step.

He had proposed just a month ago, when she had come home to him a Friday night, as always, and a diamond ring lodged in a velvety box had been waiting for her in the carton box with the cherry tart.

Emma slid in bed and switched off the nightlight on her bedside table, as though it would erase the astonishment on Neal's face.

"Well, I'm afraid my choices were a bit limited." She said for an excuse. "Seriously, what would you have picked concerning alienation?"

"I don't know, anything but something that would imply meeting with _murderers_."

She rolled her eyes at this. "Come on, Neal."

"Can you blame me?" Though there was a bit more seriousness in his tone when he went on. "Will you at least be safe?"

"Of course. If I meet with prisoners, it will be through bars and glass. Really, there's nothing to be worried about."

He didn't insist, but let out a reluctant sigh that was really just as bad. "Well," he muttered. "I guess if you swear to come back to me in one piece." He even managed a smile, earnest. "Seriously, honey. You sure you don't want to reconsider? I mean, interrogate cons isn't really in the top-ten advices for a bride glow."

"I'm sure." She shrugged. "Besides, it's not as though I'm signing up for life, I'll be there six weeks at most." She had said it and meant it, and yet she had been convinced that Neal didn't buy it – part of her didn't fully buy it, either.

...

"Well, it's not that I don't want to help you Miss Swan, only I don't usually foster a – heated environment, when it comes to my inmates. I'm certain you understand the delicate position I'm sometimes in."

Emma paused for a second. The office seemed neither cold nor hostile, and yet it inexplicably made her ten times more uncomfortable than Doctor Hopper's. Ultimately, she looked back at her interlocutor, the prison warden, and echoed the single ambiguous word he had spoken. "Heated?"

"Excuse me if I sound crude, Miss Swan, but I'm afraid you must be aware that your presence wouldn't be in favor of the calmest atmosphere."

Emma bit down on her irritation. So basically, if she were an ugly guy, they wouldn't be having this conversation.

"Look –" She was willing to throw herself into an argument if necessary, although she interrupted herself when she realized; the man still hadn't told her his name. "Sir," she settled for. "I hardly see how any of this has to do with why I came here for –"

"To write a thesis, yes. But I'm sure you understand I must take everything into consideration, this isn't quite as though we were dealing with a harmless matter."

"You're saying my presence would induce a more hostile environment?" That would be rich, she thought, when dealing with a prison.

The warden smiled; it was forced, and visibly annoyed, yet at the same time, intrigued. "What I'm saying Miss Swan, is that if you bring fresh meat at the zoo and wave it in front of the cage, the animals will bite."

"Animals?" She echoed, half-amused and more startled than actually outraged. "Are you sure it's an appropriate metaphor?"

The man's smile enlarged. Suddenly, Emma wasn't at all in the mood to laugh anymore. There was something _gruesome_ about that smile.

"I'll tell you what." He said calmly, as though the surprise in her last remark had genuinely made her more amusing than irritating to his eyes. "I'll agree to your request, I'll let you write your essay. You'll need to follow my rules thoroughly, and I'll let you meet with one of the inmates for the following six weeks." He still hadn't dropped the grin, but sounded as serious as can be. "And then, Miss Swan, you can tell me whether the metaphor was appropriate or not."

...

Her heels clicked like metal against the cement ground, and as she entered the lugubrious corridor, it seemed that every ounce of bravery she owned had crawled to hide in the pit of her stomach. The place was vast, and yet it felt narrow; there was something frighteningly symmetric about it, staircases and steel-grey doors, almost as though she had stepped right inside of a mirror.

She walked fast, following the prison warden, and the further she got, the more she began to understand what Doctor Archie Hopper had meant, when he had spoken of places so macabre that they change you. There was something about walking in this place that felt like walking underwater. It felt _exactly_ like walking underwater.

For twenty four years, she had lived peacefully and had never imagined that anything in this world could be so dark.

It was like spending years looking at the ocean, but never seeing below the surface. You've always known what was there, but you've never really looked. It felt like an epiphany. Like falling into the other side of the mirror; the bottom of the sea. It looked quiet from up there, but from below, you can see all the things that are forgotten; the wreckage, seaweed and rocks, and it's the same world, they look almost the same as they do up above, but they're darker. Much darker.

The world was filled with sharks and fish, and Emma Swan wasn't certain what role she could play in this theatre.

"You'll meet the prisoner through glass." The warden spoke calmly. "He will be restrained. If there are files you wish for him to fill, remove all trombones or pins from the pages. Give him nothing but soft paper."

"Yes."

"The man I've chosen is someone who has only recently been apprehended. Someone I'm sure you've heard of. The sentence is life in prison, so you'll have plenty of time to ponder what these walls do to his brain."

Emma wasn't certain she was meant to answer that, and she didn't have much time to think it through before the warden abruptly stopped walking. She did too, reflexively; her feet felt sore, and if she had really thought about this she wouldn't have chosen high heels this morning. Again, she didn't have time to think of it much longer because the man looked at her and smiled, and it froze her still. His smile was like an ice cube creeping down her spine.

"He's a murderer." He specified. "But this won't bother you, will it Miss Swan? You could even ask him where he's hidden his victims, I'm afraid even the police failed to get an answer to that."

Emma was uncertain whether he was trying to intimidate her or just naturally frightening, but she wondered for a second if this place got scarier.

"Anything I failed to mention?" He asked, and it took a second for Emma to answer.

"Your name?"

He smiled once more. "Adam. But to you, Miss Swan, it'll be Mr. Gold."

...

She waited a moment, sitting on an iron chair, for them to bring the prisoner. A thick glass separated her from the yet empty seat, where they would lead the man. He didn't have a face yet, but in her mind, he did; the face of true evil. There was something _wrong_ about this place, something deeply unwell, and yet as Emma Swan realized her hands were slightly shaking, she acknowledged it wasn't just from fear. There was excitement; thrill. Because she had spent all her life on the bright side of the world, and it had never occurred to her before now to take a look and discover what was underneath.

It wasn't too late, she thought, she could still back down. Mr. Gold would smirk no doubt, and indulge himself in the thought that his prison wasn't a place for decent girls, but she wouldn't have to stand the sight of his smile for very long, and Doctor Hopper would understand.

But Emma was frozen in her seat.

Because terror has that effect; because the darkness was such it would have made anyone curious; because she wasn't certain she could ever look at the sunny world right again. Because she felt she needed to take a real look at the darkness before she could step back into the light.

And then, they brought him in.

Two guards were there to drag him inside the seat, although he showed no sign of struggle. There was viciousness in his smile, manacles on his hands and feet, and such darkness in the look he gave her that his eyes appeared pitch black.

The guards left them after securing him to the iron seat, and for a long moment both remained silent, alone. Emma was aware she should be the one asking questions, she should introduce herself, but something jammed her throat. Recognition. The man was Killian Jones. He was the Driveway Ripper. She had followed his crimes on television, she had been afraid with the rest of the village when the police had established a curfew, and had felt relieved at the news of his arrest.

She was staring at the Master of the Sea. The King of the underworld.

Shadow seemed to gather in the center of his eyes, and despite the grotesque prison-blue of his uniform, despite the bars building his cage and the glass between them, he didn't look at all like the prisoner of them both; in fact, he looked knowing. There was something about this ruthless smile that indicated he knew _her_. It would be irrational and illogical to think it, but it appeared to Emma as clear as clear. He knew that she had fallen through the looking glass and that he was the darkest thing she'd ever seen.

And there was something about his smile that breathed: _initiation_.

"Mr. Jones." She spoke, as soon as she could gather her voice and manage not to falter. She would not allow herself to sit there wordless like an intimidated schoolgirl.

"You must be the student." His words were both burning like scorching coal and smooth as milk. It was the kind of voice that compels you to do just about anything. The kind that hardly needs strength, because it can persuade.

"Yes." She felt the need to swallow back her words; he shouldn't be the one asking questions, but she felt incapable to reverse their roles.

He was the one whose wrists and ankles were restricted, he was the one on the other side of that cage, and yet something told Emma those meetings would occur on his terms.

He paused, and looked at her. His smile was knowingly wicked but trustworthy, oddly; the kind of smile that bewitches you into letting him into your home, and into your bedroom. The sort of smile that gets you to open your door to a stranger, even when a murder-wave is going on. The kind of smile that genuinely makes you think that you'll be spared.

Killian Jones's apparent gentleness was this of a wolf that dipped its paw in flour to make it look white.

"You're here to learn from me?" He asked.

He really shouldn't be the one asking the questions, yet Emma swallowed and repeated. "Yes."

He hesitated, and the sigh he let out only widened his smile. The kind of smile that would make you damn your own soul. "Well, Goldilocks." He said. "Welcome to wonderland."


	2. If Darkness had a Name

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey, hope you'll enjoy this new chapter; anyway, don't forget to leave a review :)**

_'__He came out of the dark like he was made of it.' _

_Mary Reilly _

…

"You're sure you're okay, honey?"

Emma shortly froze at her fiancé's question, but her back was turned to him, and she could still hope he hadn't noticed. It was around six in the morning, they were both getting ready for work – at the moment, hers was more delicate than his.

She slid inside her mid-thigh beige skirt and answered as casually as she managed. "Yeah. I mean – I'm here to learn, that's all."

But there was something in her voice that must have sounded off. There was something in her voice that couldn't _not_ sound off, because she'd come home from a trip to the bottom of the sea, and she was going right back under today.

She heard Neal sigh behind her, and forced herself to turn around. "It's just yesterday, when you came back from that place, you seemed –" He hesitated shortly. "Unhinged."

"Oh?" She tried to sound surprised, but couldn't exactly hope he hadn't noticed it. Yesterday, she'd met with the ruthless murderer that had terrorized the small town of Storybrooke and the whole State of Maine; she reckoned it was enough to unhinge anyone.

"Look," he said, "I understand this assignment is important to you, so I'll just make you promise me one thing, all right?"

"What?" There was slight concern in her voice.

"If you feel this thing is getting too risky, you'll tell me and walk away."

"Risky?" She echoed the word despite herself; this much hadn't exactly occurred to her yet.

Prison was something she'd never thought of until recently, something she'd never _really_ contemplated before now; she had never really thought of it as another facet of the world, filled with people who looked just like the ones she met every day but were slightly different. Darker. A place filled with criminals, and between them and the prison warden Mr. Gold, she wasn't certain who made her the least comfortable.

Now, she discovered the darkness like a child reads a thrilling horror book for the first time, but it hadn't occurred to her to feel fear; it hadn't occurred to her that the monsters would crawl out of the pages and try to pull her in.

"You know what I mean," Neal said, and sighed once more; he was cute when he worried, Emma had to give him that. "I barely even dare to bring you to my workplace, due to the fact that my colleagues are immature horny pricks, so to think you spend your days in prison doesn't exactly fill me with joy."

She chuckled at that, then tied her hair up in a long ponytail. "Look, it's sweet that you worry, but really, there's nothing to be concerned about. These men are in prison, Neal."

"Well, suppose they're released one day."

She bit her lip for a second. "If it'll make you feel any better, the inmate I'm currently meeting with is sentenced to life in prison."

"Anyone I know?" He wondered, without true curiosity. Emma reckoned that was because he wasn't expecting for her to answer: Killian Jones.

She should have said it; truth was, she hadn't planned on lying to him, yet when she opened her mouth to speak, something stopped her. She couldn't have explained what. Maybe she merely feared it would increase her fiancé's worries. Maybe it was just that, before you mention you've met the King of the deep dark sea, you ask for permission.

"I don't think so." She ultimately answered, and finished adjusting her skirt. "Will you zip me up?"

…

"Miss Swann." Adam Gold greeted her with an eerie smile when he saw her. "You came back."

"Is that surprising?" For some reason, Emma reckoned that not much actually surprised Mr. Gold.

His smile enlarged slightly. It still chilled her to the bone. "Please, sit." He put warmth in his tone, and somehow it sounded even icier.

As Emma Swann sat in the man's office for the second time, she permanently decided that she didn't like it at all. She really shouldn't be thinking in metaphors, she felt too close to the cliché of Alice tumbling down in wonderland, but as she detailed Mr. Gold shortly, she couldn't help but think that, unlike Killian Jones, he didn't look like a king at all, not even like a master. He ruled the prison, yet wasn't exactly part of the prisoners' world.

He was the puppeteer, Emma understood despite herself, and a chill ran over her.

"So," she said to clear her head, "I was told you wanted to meet with me again?"

"Yes, actually I think there's something we ought to discuss." He paused briefly. "As I've told you yesterday, Miss Swann, it's not a habit of mine to generate any sort of excitement within the inmates, or anything that could favor a dangerous environment."

Emma wasn't exactly sure what he meant by dangerous, but she held her tongue.

"Nevertheless," he continued, "if I allowed you to write your essay, I'm certain you understand that it was because I considered we could both gain something from it."

"Excuse me?"

A grin curved up his lips. She really had to learn how to stop making him smile. "Killian Jones is without a doubt one of the most complicated patient here, I'm sure you'll figure that by yourself, a genuine mystery. I'm certain you must have guessed I haven't put you on his case randomly."

She'd had a vague idea of this, indeed. At first, she'd merely thought he'd introduced her to the face of ruthlessness itself to scare her off, but now she was starting to see deeper in his game.

"Killian Jones would never let a psychiatrist approach him," Mr. Gold went on, "which is why I thought that you might have a better chance at examining him. Without him knowing, of course."

So concretely, Emma thought, a twenty-four-year-old student in psychology, in search of information to write an exposé, was less obvious than a doctor trying to probe the mind of a freshly caught killer.

"Exactly what is it you want from me?" She asked.

"If Jones thought for a second you were here to study him specifically, he'd close up like iron gates. All I ask of you, Miss Swann, is that you write your essay, and give me a copy of every word you type."

"You want me to trick him." Despite Emma's will, the word her fiancé had spoken this morning came back to mind: _risky_.

"Well, forgive me for making such an assumption, but I thought you might be drawn to the experience. No doctor has ever yet approached Killian Jones, his mind is all yours, so to speak. Students rarely get the chance to study such a specimen, I thought you might be curious."

And she was curious. Curious because evil was there all around her, locked in a cage like huge sharks restrained in aquariums while she wandered and looked around, and all she had to do was scratch the surface to go an inch deeper into the dark. But curiosity killed the cat.

"Jones won't consider you as a threat," Mr. Gold went on. "In fact, fortunately enough, he might see you as a toy. It's easy to fool someone who thinks he's fooling you, Miss Swann."

But as Emma began to get a clearer image of Mr. Gold's character, she learned to read between the lines. And what he meant was: a pretty young girl, who looked well alike the ones Killian Jones used to kill, wouldn't be considered as a threat so much as a victim.

"So concretely," the warden went on, "I'm asking you to write your thesis. And when Jones will try to lead you off track and speak about his killings, because he will, I'm asking you to write down what he says, too."

Emma Swann remained silent, but it wasn't hesitation. There could be several reasons why she should disagree to the man's offer, even if that would mean giving up on the assignment. For starters, to play any sort of game with a serial killer sounded like walking on thin ice, but foremost, she felt as though to agree to Mr. Gold's offer would inevitably mean entering his game, too. It would mean agreeing to become a pawn in the puppeteer's show.

But the curious attraction that drew her here felt beyond her control. She didn't feel as though she'd seen enough of this so very dark world just yet to be able to go back to the real world. Because the sunny world above the surface of the deep blue sea _was_ the real world, she didn't yet doubt it.

Mr. Gold smiled once more–it was still as gruesome–before he went on. "Well, dear. Do we have a deal?"

…

Her heart was beating too fast when Killian Jones sat before her again. He was the prisoner, she had to remember this much, because the mere way he looked at her was enough to make her feel like a mouse caught in an eagle's claw.

There was something both _wrong_ and exciting about being looked at this way. There was something thrilling about watching the predator's mouth get watery, about being able to _sense_ the danger, but sit well and safe on the other side of that cage.

"Tell me, sweetheart," he spoke at some point, after casually answering her coy routine questions, in a voice so sweet and hoarse that he sounded both gentle and cruel. "Aren't you going to ask what it felt like?"

Emma swallowed, and wondered for a second whether she should pretend not to know what he meant. Ultimately, she said. "I don't have to know about the attacks."

"No." He agreed, then asserted with a certainty that made her breathing shatter. "But you want to." He detailed her with eyes both cold and aroused, with the custom of a professional and the devotion of an artist. "Aren't you going to ask me _why_?" He asked again. "Why some people become dentists, others lawyers, but I become a Ripper? Aren't going to ask me how evil brews, whether or not I had father issues or tortured puppies?"

Emma's heartbeat quickened despite herself. She remembered the deal she'd made with Mr. Gold, and yet for the umpteenth time, her brain shouted at her to back down. Because the way that Killian Jones looked at her right now gave her the impression that she'd never quite be able to tell whether she was playing or getting played, and it inexplicably felt as though to ask a question outside of the thesis she was writing would make their relationship _personal_. And this was something very, very frightening. Something her fiancé Neal would consider risky.

But she'd made a deal, and curiosity dictated her thoughts rather than wariness. After all, she was on the other side of the aquarium, she thought, and regained a bit of confidence.

"Did you?" She asked and arched a brow; she was in control of her actions, she fought with all her strengths to believe that.

His lips broke into a wide merciless grin. "No. I don't fit the profile, do I?"

Emma didn't answer. He both fitted it too much and not at all.

"I didn't have a traumatic childhood, I didn't suffer from mistreatment or abuse." He paused for a second; despite the glass separating them, his dark gaze felt _burning_ on Emma's skin. "It's not quite what you see on television, hey? Everything doesn't happen for a reason, _evil_ isn't explainable. Would you like to hear my theory?"

She swallowed. The notebook on her lap felt inexplicably heavy; she should be taking notes, not just because it was the reason why she was here initially, or because of the deal she'd made with Mr. Gold, but because it would restore the status of their conversation, which she couldn't let herself forget. But as Killian Jones spoke, she found herself incapable to move an inch, as though prisoner from her own flesh – and his eyes.

He waited until he must have taken her terrified silence for an agreement, and went on calmly. "The people you cross path with in the street, your doctor, your teacher, your pharmacist, absolutely every person on this planet… is capable of murder."

Emma's throat jammed with anxiety.

His voice was still calm, seductive, and there was a sliver of amusement in his eyes that almost looked _inviting_. Almost as though she was standing on the threshold of humanity, caught between one side brighter than the sun and another dark as coal, and Killian's gaze said: _come on in_.

Satisfaction curved a smile on his lips. "You think evil is a status, do you gorgeous? You think it's a stigma that only monsters wear tattooed on their flesh?" He leaned in an inch closer to the glass, and although gates separated them, although Killian's hands were trapped in steel bracelets, Emma's breath was caught in her throat when he moved. "Tell me, Goldilocks. Does it ever occur to you that evil is a passion?"

…

She tried to maintain her footsteps slow and controlled as she exited the prison, but when the guards were out of sight, when she could no longer feel Killian Jones's eyes burning holes in her back, once she'd gotten inside her car and locked all doors in haste, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

She let her head rest against the seat cushion and waited a moment to calm down.

Her hands were shaking when she locked them around the driving wheel.

It wasn't just because of the meeting with Killian Jones, and at the same time it's all it was about. It was because, in two days only, she had discovered a world she would have never suspected to exist. It was because, ever since she'd lifted that heavy red curtain and discovered the obscure world underneath, an unconscious part of her had feared there would be no coming back to the light. A part of her had feared that it wasn't a new world she was looking at, but the same one she lived in; there was no light to come home to.

And now she feared she hadn't discovered a new universe, but lifted the veil and seen the true face of humanity, hideous and vile; and dark, dark, dark. She feared that, after removing the liar's mask, the curtain could never be brought down.


	3. The Devil's Greatest Trick

_"There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth."_

_Nietzsche_

...

"Prison?" The frown on Mary Margaret's face did not look very stern or angry, it never did. The woman's round and serene face looked too sweet for her scolding to sound actually intimidating, and Emma figured it was her mother's number one flaw. "When exactly did you intend to tell us?"

"Well, I didn't see the point in scaring you." Emma defended. "I never go elsewhere than the visiting room and the warden's office, I'm not anywhere near gen pop, I never even meet with more than one con. Honestly, mom, I'm fine."

But the overly gentle frown did not leave her mother's face. Mary Margaret and David Nolan had adopted her when she was ten, after Emma's biological parents had died. Mary Margaret had been her baby sitter since her infancy, when Mary was just a teenager – and she had only been twenty-two years old when she had decided to adopt Emma. David Nolan, Mary Margaret's fiancé at the time, had stood by her and agreed to legally become Emma's father. It was not an easy thing for such young people to do, and Emma had always been grateful for it and tried to be as easy on them as possible. It was partly why she had not wanted to tell her adoptive parents about her current assignment in prison.

"Emma." Mary Margaret let out a sigh. "Just to think that you cross ways with convicted criminals –"

"Just one criminal, mom."

"That you actually talk to them, that you get near them. It's not a safe game, honey. You know that you can never get into these people's head, they'll get into yours."

"That's not the point at all." Emma argued, but deep down, looking back on her last two sessions with Killian Jones, she figured it might be a bit true. "Besides," she added on a light tone, "criminal minds are the most interesting ones to study."

She only met seriousness in her mother's eyes. "Just promise me you'll keep this under control."

"I will, so long as you promise you won't tell dad."

"All right." Her mother agreed, not without reluctance.

They usually met up to have lunch once or twice a week at Granny's diner, just the two of them. Emma more generally went home to her parents' house once every two weeks, to have a family dinner with both her adoptive parents and Neal. Lately, she had been so busy with college and wedding plans that it had entirely slipped her mind.

"Are you free this weekend?" Emma asked, mostly to start on a new subject. "I've still got a wedding dress to pick."

Her mother gave her a reprobating look, because Emma had to know that the offer would most likely win her over. "This doesn't mean I'm not worried." She pointed out.

"Okay." Said the daughter anyway, because as long as the topic was off the table, it was good enough for her.

...

He watched as Emma's upper lip got between her teeth a split second. He watched as nervousness made her swallow and moisten her lips. He watched her straightening her glasses back in place and holding back from unpinning her hair to fiddle anxiously with the golden locks.

Killian Jones reckoned that he knew what type of girl that cute college student was. He had hardly needed more than a few seconds of appraisal, what with those doe eyes and long yellow hair, and that look of curiosity on her face – the curiosity of a kitten that wants to earn the treat without dirtying its plushy paw.

The young woman was only beginning her journey into the world of the wild, and he wasn't too sure what to get her started with. He was always polite when he answered her questions, about his new living conditions and how he felt influenced by them, and as she took notes the way a pupil does from a teacher's speech, Killian was very aware he was playing her. What's more is that he thought she was aware of it too.

"Can I ask something in return?" He inquired after a few minutes, ever so courteous, and yet the look that the girl gave him was like this of a deer that spots the headlights of a car in the middle of the road. It drew a ravenous smile on his lips. "It's just you're asking all these things about me but the warden won't even tell me your name. He's afraid I'll write you, you see."

His college girl didn't answer anything. She was going to answer him in the end, he could tell that she would, because he had asked politely and it was the polite thing to do.

"I'm not certain it's appropriate." She said cautiously.

He was used to breaking this sort of cautiousness without effort. Honestly, he ate innocent well-educated girls like her for breakfast and she was not much of a surprise to him; and yet, he thought he might take unprecedented pleasure in initiating her.

"Well, you know mine." He remarked as an argument. "You've asked me about how prison is affecting me, I've told you a great deal about my past and myself. I don't think it would be inappropriate for us to be on an equal footing, so long as I'll be answering your questions."

Emma's throat tightened slightly. The smile on Killian Jones's lips looked polite, but there was a hint of wildness that escaped politeness.

He went on with a honey-sweet tone – truly, he was the kind of man who could talk you into doing many things. Maybe just about anything. "I'll be on this side of the glass and you will be on yours, but I would find it more suiting that we be on equal grounds. I have lost my freedom but not all of my rights."

The girl appraised him as if frightened this would put him in the position of power – then she seemed to remember the manacles around his hands.

"It's Emma." She swallowed coyly. She probably regretted the word as soon as she had spoken it. "Emma Swan."

"Emma Swan." He repeated, and the sound made the hairs bristle on the back of her neck. He wouldn't forget it. "Tell me, how did you convince our dear warden to allow you inside his prison? He isn't usually too fond of outsiders, and especially those that disturb the peace and order of his fine trade."

"I have no intention to make any kind of disturbance here."

"This doesn't answer my question."

And she had very deliberately avoided answering it, and Emma thought he might be aware of that. "It does." She tried to sound as convincing as she could. "Mr. Gold knows I don't pose a threat to anyone or anything here. I'm only here to learn." She lowered her eyes as if ashamed that the subject had drifted.

"I see."

The enjoyment that her faltering had brought on his face seemed deep, and there was a kind of worry in her chest that said he would not allow it to stop there. "It's probably best we go back to the incarceration system –"

"You don't want to know about the victims? How I picked them, where I put them?"

"It's not what I'm here for –"

"But the warden does want to find out and so do you."

"No." She said it before she could help herself, even though it went against her agreement with Mr. Gold. Actually, as Killian Jones had said the words, she had realized it might be the last thing she wanted.

Curiosity widened the smile on Killian's lips. It was the first time he felt curious in a while. "Then what do you want to know, Emma Swan? What are you really here for? The study of alienation, is it – prison doesn't alienate the mind. We all grow up in some kind of prison. Alienation happens when we fail to choose the right one." Killian's eyes wandered about his surroundings, the grayish walls and the people in orange suits, and finally set on her. "I'm not the only one in prison here, sweetheart. The thing is I don't even need to know you to know this, because you would not have come here with your high heels and your secondhand suit if you weren't looking to break out of it – to break out of these prison walls that you've created. Anyone ever told you that being good will lead you to heaven, is that the law that you abide by?" A genuinely amused laughter left his throat, and it felt unnerving to imagine that a man like Killian Jones could feel anything. "No," he answered his own question. "You hardly even know what you're doing."

Emma clenched her jaw. She was here to study and not be studied, and she should know deep inside of herself that the world that Killian Jones was describing was not the rational world – a world where killing was an art and evil was a passion could never be rational. This didn't make his words less persuasive. She was certain this one man could convince the whole world that they were mad and he was sound, if it crossed his mind.

"I won't play games with you." Emma said with a rather respectable attempted authority and calm; come to think of it, this one assertion was probably her most blatant lie. "The reasons why I am here of professional nature and they do not concern you. I'll appreciate that you resume more professional language."

"Of course, love. You must forgive me for seizing the distraction – it gets boring inside my prison walls, too."

But the look on his face did not go along with the idea that he might behave. Actually, if madness had a face, it was probably this of Killian Jones – the devil's human form is always charming. There would be no temptation if it wasn't.

…

"You ever sometimes wonder if the world isn't entirely different from how you think it is?"

Neal lifted his eyes from his book to look at her. It was past 10 p.m., but even the quietest evening at home with her fiancé hadn't shaken the prison-atmosphere that Emma had seemed to carry all day. Maybe this eerie feeling did not come from Mr. Gold's prison, but from Killian Jones – from the idea that serial killers could look handsome and actually alluring, that mad people could smile and be amused and bored, like anyone else.

"This is about your thesis, isn't it?" Neal said for an answer.

"Don't lecture me, please. Just tell me, honestly – don't you ever realize that our life is guided by perception, and that the world might be completely different if we looked at it from a different angle?"

"You mean, are mad people actually mad or just misunderstood?"

Emma detected the dryness in her boyfriend's voice and retorted coldly also. "It's not what I'm saying." Actually, she just found it a bit easy to categorize them as: mad. It was not something that she had given much thought to before, yet now it seemed obviously too simple – someone that believes murder is just a lifestyle is insane, but Emma Swan had not decided to study the mind of a murderer to leave it there.

There was an alarm inside of her, warning her that no good comes out of opening Pandora's box and temptation is after all the original sin, but although she had seemed to pick this subject randomly, it would make no sense that she didn't go below the surface – everyone can take a look at a sea monster and tell you what it looks like, but they never tell you how it became a monster. Maybe the Leviathans started out as human beings. After all, Lucifer started as an angel.

"Well, I just don't see the good that can come out of looking at things this way." Neal said without sounding too begrudging. "I think the only world that is worth knowing is the one where we don't take a human life without trial. And just so you know," he added, "the only moment I've ever realized I had been living my life with the wrong perception of the world was when I met you."

Although the nagging thought was still on her mind and although she was still a bit upset, Emma smiled and gave her boyfriend a quick kiss.

"By the way, I'm going shopping for a wedding dress this weekend."

"Well, be sure not to show it to me before we get married." He teased. "I don't want any bad luck."

…

The words 'bad luck' came to many people's minds, on that same evening. It came to the two guards who escorted Killian Jones back to his prison cell, and especially the one that Killian killed. The other one got away with a bump on the head and a broken nose. There was no telling how long the notorious convicted killer had been planning this or if he had even planned it at all. 'Bad luck' came to Mr. Gold when he learned about the disturbance in his prison, and that a certain criminal had reintegrated society.

It was observed on the several security cameras that the latter exited the prison facility with a very calm air. He struck in the evening, when the guards were taking him to his cell, in the camera's blind spot, and therefore there was no explanation as to how a handcuffed prisoner had managed to kill one trained guard and knock out another. The one that survived affirmed that Killian Jones struck like a snake, with that same suddenness and beastliness that can neither be contained nor thwarted.

Killian had then put on the dead security guard's uniform and walked out of the prison quite at ease.

It seemed that luck had rather been on the dark side of the world tonight.

And when Killian stepped out of the penitentiary of Storybrooke, Emma Swan was on his mind.


	4. Curiosity Killed the Cat

_"__No, I am not blushing; plaster masks have no redness in the service of shame."_

_Alfred de Musset_

…

"What do you mean, he's _escaped_?" Emma's tone expressed both disbelief and outrage. Of course, she had no doubt that this was the truth. She had heard about it on television and had rushed to the prison on the next day, and she hadn't truly expected that Mr. Gold would tell this was all a very bad joke.

"Trust me, my dear, I'm the least pleased about this." Adam Gold asserted dryly.

"I don't even understand how it's possible, how a convict can just walk out of prison."

"Like I've said, Miss Swan, you are not the only one worried here."

The sound of Mr. Gold's voice naturally triggered this unnerving feeling to spread throughout her body, but today this didn't measure up to the breaking news – Killian Jones was out in the world again, free to spread terror and live as he chose to.

"Allow me to remind you of a few things, dearie." Mr. Gold said with a smile that Emma suspected was not amused at all. "You have come to me and asked to be brought in contact with one of my criminals, something which I considered risky but have agreed to, this was our deal. You have agreed to report to me everything that Killian Jones told you about his murders, this was our deal. The way that I see it, nothing was done on either part that actually came to disturb it. Killian's escape is but an unfortunate incident that, as I have pointed out, will affect my line of work more than yours. I take it you will drop this field of studies and your teacher will naturally understand this, but apart from that, I simply don't see how your life may be altered. Supposing that he wanted to come after you, Killian Jones does not know the first thing about you, not even your name."

A mixture of ache and fright jammed Emma's throat. She was somehow convinced that Adam Gold noticed her reaction and knew exactly the cause.

"Storybrooke is a small town." She managed without faltering. "It's easy to make certain faces come out."

"I'm glad you've pointed this out. Killian Jones may have terrorized the state of Maine and he may even have given the police a hard time catching him, but that was before every American citizen knew how to identify him. Jones will be caught, my dear, this is a certainty, and I am quite sure that it will be done within the week. This has no cause to actually worry you, Miss Swan."

Emma kept silent for a moment. She knew that Mr. Gold was probably an ordinary prison warden with no other motive than to keep his prison in order, and yet this was not what her gut was telling her – that he was actually a puppeteer, and that he had allowed her inside of his show knowing what would happen. This was not the truth of the rational world that Emma Swan believed it, but part of Emma was no longer rational – part of her had stopped being rational, the moment that they had brought this serial killer to meet her, vibrating with madness and murder.

"Of course, I recommend you talk to the police about your sessions here. I have notified them of my decision to allow a student to interact with one of my prisoners, therefore it is likely they will contact you." Mr. Gold arose from his chair and Emma felt compelled to do the same thing. "It was a pleasure to do business with you, Miss Swan. I do hope we will meet again, although I'm uncertain under which circumstances that may be."

He extended his hand in order to shake hers, and Emma suddenly realized that to touch him would repel her. She didn't see what other choice she had, but the idea of shaking hands with this man seemed absurd, in the irrational part of her mind.

She put her hand in his and a sensation of unprecedented cold came over her. It made her think that perhaps she should have walked away when Mr. Gold had first tried to convince her, without seeing any more of his prison or his prisoners.

"May we meet again, Miss Swan." He said politely.

And even in the sake of manners, Emma could not find it in her to repeat his sentence.

…

Emma didn't go to class at all that day. She thought that there was something very strange about the darkness that molded you into silence. Her fiancé Neal asked her if she was okay and her teacher Dr. Hopper sent her an email to ask the same thing, and all in all that day she had plenty of occasions to break the news to someone.

It was actually when she saw Neal curse at the news program that told them that Killian Jones had broken out of Storybrooke Penitentiary that she realized she had not told anyone about this. It seemed that she could have found time to tell her boyfriend or her parents that once a week for almost a month now, she had been meeting with the notorious Driveway Ripper.

It was truly at this stage that these meetings that had happened between Killian Jones and her started feeling like a secret. Now, it would be pointless to tell the people that loved her, of course, because the only result would be to worry them, and yet Emma started feeling like if she didn't say the words aloud soon, she was going to lose her mind.

But she was not going to say it. Part of her knew that, irrationally.

The sheriff came to her home a couple of days after the event. Graham Humbert was not unknown in the small village of Storybrooke, being the youngest man to earn this post in the town's record, but he was foremost known as a hard-heartened man – Emma believed that Mary Margaret referred to him as 'that cute gloomy cop who's dating Madam Mayor'.

Emma let him in her house without wavering, grateful that Neal was currently at work. She had gone to school with Sheriff Humbert and she refused to let the uniform scare her off.

"Graham." She greeted him with a polite smile, but it was slightly forced – she wasn't in the mood to smile today.

"Emma." He repeated the formality and almost exactly the same smile.

"Can I make you some coffee?"

"Don't bother, I won't be long. This is just a routine checkup, really – as I understand, you're the last one to have seen Jones before he broke out."

This had no motive to make Emma feel ashamed and yet for some reason she blushed. "That's right."

"Adam Gold tells me you've had several sessions with him before. If you don't mind me asking, Emma, what was this about?"

He asked the question without actually sounding reproachful or even concerned. Emma had known Graham for most of her life, not that the two of them had ever been close or even spoken more than a few words to each other, but she had noticed he had become slightly different a few years ago, when he had started a relationship with Regina Mills, oddly – colder.

"Well, I was doing some research for a school essay, actually. I decided to study prison and asked Mr. Gold if he would be kind enough to allow me to talk to a prisoner, he agreed."

She felt a bit awkward to give this justification as though it was not the complete truth, and yet she looked into Graham's bleak brown eyes and she thought she didn't have to be ashamed – he of all men in Storybrooke probably understood being attracted to darkness.

"So the nature of these sessions was professional?" He asked so matter-of-factly that Emma had trouble registering what he even meant.

"Of course." She was too startled to sound outraged.

"And the content?"

"If you think Killian ever shared details about his murders with me or so much as hinted that he was planning an escape –"

"I'm not saying you had a clue, Emma. Like I told you, this is just routine work."

She decided that she believed him. She took a look at Graham and felt sad, somewhere deep within her, because the man looked hollow and actually drained, and she doubted that he did anything that was not out of routine anymore. She doubted that this wood soldier ever felt anything at all.

…

He left when she had told him everything that she remembered about her meetings with Killian Jones – and she remembered practically every word – and when she led him out the door, she caught herself asking. "Do you think that you'll find him?"

"Sooner or later." The sheriff answered. "Storybrooke is a small town, he can only be hiding in so many places. If he's smart he'll leave the village and then I suppose he will no longer be our problem."

"Is it so simple to you?" Emma asked despite herself – she didn't think she would be able to fully go back to normal until Killian Jones was back in prison. And deep down, she worried that even then, she would not know how to go back.

She could have chosen any field of study to go about alienation, but it was too late to feel sorry now. Now, she didn't think she would ever be the same person she had been before she set eyes on Killian Jones's smile.

He answered her coolly. "My trade is simple. I worry about keeping the citizens of this village safe and let other policemen worry about their own. I would make a very lousy sheriff if I could not find sleep every time a criminal got away."

"I suppose that's right." She said nothing for a moment, but she didn't sound embarrassed or actually casual. "It was good to see you again, Graham."

"Take care of yourself, Emma."

He walked back to his car and soon disappeared into the dreary twilight. The late afternoon looked dark tonight, particularly dark. The world always looks black, from the bottom of the ocean.

…

It happened on that same evening around 1 a.m. Neal was fast asleep at Emma's side, and he was never the one to pick up the phone, anyway – Emma always had that talent at meeting her interlocutor's expectations, at politely declining an offer or welcoming the unexpected calls of long-distance friends.

She had been a fine interlocutor to Killian Jones as well. She was here because of her studies of course but that hadn't been the only reason. He was bored and she was curious, and she supposed that she had partly brought this on herself – for beginners, she never should have told him her name.

When her phone rang, late that night, she was more aware of it than ever.

And sometimes, she even thought that she picked up knowing who was at the other end of the line.

"Hello?" Neal stirred beside her slightly as she spoke.

A chill crept down her spine when he answered – and his voice was the same velvet coat that had shaken her so, in prison, the voice that had somehow made her stop being smart and rational, probably the voice that the devil would use if he were to seduce a woman.

"Miss Emma Swan. I am very sorry to bother you so late. I have given much thought to our last conversation, I thought we might pick up from where we left off."

The shock fell heavily on Emma's face and not another word was able to leave her throat. She was not surprised. Perhaps this was the most shocking of all. Her soon-to-be husband was sleeping next to her and she was on the phone with a wanted murderer, but part of her thought that this made sense – that it made all the sense in the world.

She had asked to be introduced to the King of the wicked and He would decide when this would end and on what terms. She would need to tell Sheriff Graham about this. And yet part of her inexplicably knew that she wouldn't.

"Do not bother trying to have this call traced, by the time that the police track down the telephone booth I've used, I'll be away. Miss Swan? I don't have all night."

Emma's throat tightened and she could neither manage to speak nor hang up. He had demanded an answer and for a reason she could not figure out, there seemed to be a silent authority in his words that she could not disobey.

"What do you want?"

"Well, I have no much greater agenda than you did when you came to me. You were curious about my world, Emma Swan, and I seem to be curious about yours. I realize this might be awfully disappointing to you, but there is no great design to evil – I have always taken the least tedious path that life presented and prison wasn't working for me too well. Maybe when you walked in the penitentiary on that first day, you just took a piece of me and I took a piece of you." He said as a final explanation.

Emma clenched her jaw. "I want nothing whatsoever to do with you."

A hoarse laughter sounded at the other end of the line. "And yet you walked to me one day in those prison walls and you asked me to teach you. I often find myself looking back on our first meeting, you know –" He said pensively. "I remember quite distinctly the first impression that you gave me, with your red skirt and your high heels. You were truly like a robin, walking in a foxhole without quite being able to explain why or to stop."

Emma's hand tightened around the phone. Neal made a sleepy sound next to her, and perhaps that was the only thing that made her react. "I'm going to hang up now, Killian. Then I'm going to call 911."

"If it'll make you feel better, sweetheart – if it'll help with the thought that you didn't jump through the looking glass knowing exactly what to expect from the fall. That's not my way of saying that you were ill-intended, love." He pointed out as though it would be extremely rude not to. "No, I think all you truly wanted was to see – and you will."

This promise made Emma's blood run cold in her veins.

"We all get tempted by the unknown from time to time, Emma Swan. A country boy will want to see the city lights and an urban will feel attracted to the darker side of town." She could picture that ravenous grin on his lips as he added. "The only innocent girl that wears red is Little Red Riding Hood, Miss Swan. And we all know what the big bad wolf thought about that."


	5. Obsession

**AN:** first of all I would like to thank you all for the great feedback I've been getting. Lots of you have asked me whether this was going to be a Captain/Swan story and I'm afraid in the traditional sense, it isn't. I don't consider it's a Swan/Fire story either, actually the crux of the fic isn't romance. It's about Hook and Emma mainly, it's about temptation and about darkness and Killian's obsession with Emma. I don't think that serial killers can truly love in a typical way or actually be loved, I mainly want to capture what there can be instead.

…

_'__You, who like a dagger ploughed into my heart with deadly thrill: you who, stronger than a crowd of demons, mad, and dressed to kill.'_

_Le Vampire, _Baudelaire (translation by Roy Campbell)

…

Emma Swan wasn't entirely certain when her legitimate fear of Killian Jones had little by little turned into obsession. Maybe it hadn't happened gradually at all. Maybe it had been from the moment she had looked into those dark, dark eyes, and she had known with a steely certitude that the world that she thought was rational and bright had lifted up its mask. The face it had revealed was this of Killian. Beautiful. Terrible. An awe-conveying face, the same way you might look at a tiger turning about its prey or an eagle that dives in for the kill.

The words he had spoken to her over the phone came back to her mind. Maybe they had simply parted ways that first day inexplicably owning a part of each other.

Emma could no longer fall asleep without the haunting image of Killian in her head, and the imaginary sound of a telephone ring – she could hear that phone ringing even when it wasn't. Sleepless nights are not generally recommended, just a few weeks before your wedding day.

It had not been a week since Killian's escape, and apart from this disturbing phone call in the middle of the night, Emma had not heard of the loose killer. She had thought of calling the sheriff about this, and in fact she had, several times – but each time, before Graham's assistant could pick up the phone, she had hung up.

Emma thought perhaps this was the exact difference between fear and obsession.

Yes, most definitely. She had never least been in the mood to make herself a bride.

"My God." Mary Margaret exclaimed with such seriousness Emma's heart skipped a beat. "This is gorgeous, Emma, you have to try it on."

Emma pretended to pay attention to the white satin item. It wasn't fair that she acted so gloomy today, she had been the one to suggest that her mother and her should go shopping for a wedding dress, but there was nothing that could be done about it. Her mind was somewhere else.

"All right." She agreed, but there must have been something about her reply that didn't sound excited enough because her mother frowned.

"Too classic, maybe? You know you don't have to get married in white, there're a lot of atypical wedding dresses that are made these days. I saw a red one in this modern shop at the edge of town."

"No, not red. I'll just try this one on."

And yet as she saw herself in the dressing room mirror, a few moments later, Emma thought that perhaps this was a very bad idea… that perhaps she should have cancelled anything related to wedding plans today instead of humoring her mother.

The dress was beautiful, but beautiful didn't mean anything to Emma Swan anymore. The silky material and overly tight bustier felt very much like a vice around her lungs. Killian's words came back to her, about how we all lock ourselves in some kind of prison.

She got out of the dress as though if she wore it for one second more, it might set her skin on fire.

…

"There's something wrong with you these days, Emma."

The young woman looked back at her mother, surprised – she had been thinking of something else, as she was more often than not lately, something about the depths of the world and whether the disguise was actually more absurd than the truth. Due to this, she was almost surprised at anything that drew her from her thoughts, but Mary Margaret's straightforward words and the genuine concern in her voice set a new record.

"That's ridiculous." Emma argued. "I'm just a bit stressed about the wedding."

"You've known Neal since forever, honey, and you've never been afraid of commitment."

"What are you saying?" Emma regretted the harshness in her words but didn't seem able to do anything about it. She didn't mean to sound defensive. Her mother had motive to worry and she knew it.

"You're acting strange." She said softly. Emma couldn't actually remember her mother speaking a harsh word. "You don't have to talk to me about it, but there's something going on – and Emma, I do wish you would talk to someone."

Emma didn't reply anything. Her mother had driven her home and as they both stayed seated in the parked vehicle, in the driveway, Emma realized just how much she wished she didn't have to think about it – about serial killing and the how black the world was, on the other side of that veil. She wished she could only be a bit nervous as any bride to be, a month away from the wedding.

"There's no point." Emma managed, figuring that she owed her mother honesty at least.

Since she had stepped a foot in Mr. Gold's prison, she had realized that evil was very much like a black hole – that it sucked you in ultimately, no matter what you did to fight it. She wished she had never tried to discover how black the soul of a murderer was, she wished that she had never taken a first look at that bottomless pit – because when you look long enough into the darkness, the darkness looks back into you. This was probably the finest truth of German philosophy, according to Emma Swan. She was trying to concentrate on Neal and on the wedding, because it was what she wanted and she didn't want to taint a moment that was meant to be magical, but it was beyond her control – she could feel that black hole of evil trying to pull her in, and she felt she was just tired enough to think of letting go.

To take a human life was absurd. Emma Swan knew this. For someone brilliant and charming to decide to become a killer just because it was less boring than a regular job was absurd. She probably never should have tried to find the logic in it, because as a consequence the rational world had crumbled beneath her feet.

She wasn't sure which idea she disliked most… that Killian Jones believed he owned a part of her, or that she owned a part of him.

"Do you know that he used a hook?"

"What?" Mary Margaret sounded surprised at her daughter's question. Emma had to admit it had come rather out of the blue.

She hadn't wanted to talk about this at all, and yet she heard the words come out despite herself. "The Driveway Ripper. Killian Jones, the one that escaped. The police never leaked to the press what weapon he used to kill his victims – it was a hook, actually."

Her mother's face turned whiter than usual. "Emma…" She began with a somewhat horrified tone.

"I met with him." She said before Mary could ask. She said it so that maybe she could finally stop thinking about it. "When he was still in prison, when I was working on my project. I met with Killian Jones." Emma dared a look at her mother.

"Oh my God."

"You can't tell dad, please. And you can't tell Neal."

"My God, Emma –"

"Please, mom. Promise me."

Instead of saying that or anything, Mary Margaret drew her daughter against her and held her as tightly as if she knew a bit about the undertow that Emma was currently fighting against.

It was a shame that the young woman had neglected college, these past days. Emma believed she was beginning to know the colors of alienation.

…

Obsession is an ugly thing, but a pretty word, or so thought Killian. A very ugly thing, and he had seen his share of ugly.

He didn't know what it was about Emma Swan that would not leave him be. There was something about the strength in her face that made him curious and amused, at the thought that she actually believed she was in control. She was a beautiful woman of course, but he had seen others before. That's not all it was. It was something paradoxical, a kind of contradiction. There was just something about Emma Swan's unscarred innocence that was almost asking to be corrupt.

Maybe Killian was only curious what would happen. It had been a while since all he did was win his own games, and there was something that told him that this time might be different – maybe all he truly wanted was to start a dance with Emma Swan and be uncertain which one of them would be the last one standing.

She was a one of a kind specimen and he was growing so tired of the games he usually played. There are no rules that apply, as far as obsession is concerned. All is fair in love and war, and obsession was probably in between both.

Killian's dreams at night were often filled with blond hair and hazel eyes, and he would wake up in the morning and think to himself that he ought to leave town… but Killian Jones had not escaped Storybrooke Penitentiary to live on the run, and he started thinking perhaps he had not even done so to perpetuate the terror that he had started when had become famous as the Ripper of Maine.

Truth was, when he had escaped, he had not had much more of a plan in mind than initiating Emma Swan, and he was not worried at the idea that she might actually beat him to his game.

He lay in the bed of a motel room just outside of Storybrooke, and that night sleep wouldn't come again… truly. It was like knowing you shouldn't scratch a particular itch but being unable to resist. The thought of Emma came to him again, and he kept his eyes closed as he said to himself. "Why not?"

…

Sleep would not come for Emma Swan either, that night. She lay in bed at her fiancé's side, and she cursed whatever it was could stand in the way of her dreams and wedding plans. She cursed Killian Jones for haunting her sleep, and she cursed him for whatever allegiance he thought she owed him.

That night, long after she had given up on rest, Emma went down the stairs and heated a full mug of yesterday's coffee in the microwave, then she sat down on the living room couch and while taking long swallows of coffee, she dialed Graham's phone number once more.

And once more, she ended the call before anybody answered.

"All right." She said out loud, because she had had just about enough of Killian's games. She could not have sounded very healthy or actually sane, speaking to herself, alone in the middle of the night, but perhaps the answer to restore her peace of mind was not rational – perhaps she needed to follow the irrational path that she had started on and it might just lead her to Killian. "You want to play? We'll play." She drank another sip of coffee. "Let's see how you like being hunted down."

Emma didn't go back to bed that night, and she knew that she would not struggle to call the police anymore – it wasn't because she didn't want Killian Jones to be caught, simply she did not think that he could be… not by the police, at least.

Because they were going to look for him in all the wrong places. Because they were searching blind. Because they were simply looking for him in the wrong world.

Some say that it takes a criminal to catch one. Emma thought she might just follow the white rabbit and see what happened.


	6. Down the Rabbit Hole

_'"__If he be Mr. Hyde," he had thought, "I shall be Mr. Seek."'_

_The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,_ R.L. Stevenson

…

"Well, Miss Swan. It's a delight to see you." Mr. Gold's tone was polite, and yet there was something about it that seemed to say… _I told you we'd meet again_.

She managed to give him a stiff smile. It was the best she could do.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" He asked.

"Actually, I thought you might agree to let me meet with another one of your prisoners."

Mr. Gold arched a brow that looked intrigued – and yet, inexplicably, not surprised. "Well, I must admit I find this quite odd, Miss Swan. If I recall correctly, you were determined to blame me for the interviews I have granted you with my criminal. Is this still about your thesis?"

Emma swallowed. She hadn't still figured out whether it would be safer to lie. "Yes." She answered at last, and Mr. Gold seemed amused at her hesitation. She had actually been neglecting college for the past week, and she didn't feel too bad about it.

There was a dangerous killer on the run, and she was convinced for some reason that he was hers to catch. She figured that her teacher Mr. Hopper would find this a decent motive to skip class.

"I see." Mr. Gold smiled. It was truly a terrible thing to witness. "I have to admire your courage, my dear, your determination is remarkable. I would have thought that just one killer so unhinging as the Driveway Ripper would have been the end of your efforts."

"Actually, the prisoner that I would like to speak with is one in particular."

Amusement sparkled in Mr. Gold's eyes. "Really." He spoke the word without making it sound like a question.

Emma cleared her throat. "I thought you might allow me to speak with Killian Jones's cellmate."

"His cellmate? Well, my dear I'm afraid he would be quite useless to your thesis. He is… how could I put it? Mad as a hatter, is what he is. I don't think you would get much out of him concerning what prison does to regular human beings."

"Someone that takes a human life for his own satisfaction is not regular." She argued, sounding defensive for some reason. "Yet you granted me several interviews with a killer."

"If you take this tone with me, dearie, I'm going to have to stop pretending that I don't know your motive has nothing to do with alienation. Well," his smile widened, "I suppose that to some extent, it does."

Emma only clenched her teeth. "Will you allow it or not?"

"The thing is I don't see how it would play in my favor. For us to have a deal, Miss Swan, there must be a kind of reciprocity, a quid pro quo."

"All right. What do you want?" She figured she wasn't above cutting deals at this point.

"There is quite a reward hooked on Killian Jones's head, as I'm sure you're aware of. If your enterprise here is to go after him somehow I can hardly question your means – I only ask that you notify me before you notify the police."

Emma looked genuinely surprised. "You're after the reward?"

"Nowadays money is virtually power, dearie, but what I truly want is for Jones to be back behind bars, the sooner the better. You see, I'm not so fond of order being disrupted in my prison, and I insist that punishment ensues for the disrupters." Another smile crooked up his lips. "However as a well-intended citizen and in the position you've just put me in, it is my duty to let you know that it is a risky call you're making, my dear. There are many ways that your little investigation could take a tragic turn."

"Then let's just say this is about my assignment."

"Of course."

And yet Emma thought that she didn't like to keep making deals with that prison warden… he had been nothing but polite to her since they had met, and yet she thought that he was not just an ordinary citizen or, for that matter, well-intended.

Mr. Gold extended his hand over the wooden desk, as if reading her mind and determined to worsen her discomfort.

"Let's shake on it. Shall we?"

Cold spread throughout Emma's limbs at the idea of touching him. Nothing good ever comes out of making a deal with the devil, she was still a rational smart girl and she knew this. And yet, it didn't really feel like the choice was hers. She had stopped making choices from the moment she had decided that she would not be able to resume her old life until Killian Jones was arrested. Nothing came without a price. When she shook Adam Gold's hand, the price felt far too high.

…

Maddox Jefferson had been in prison for much longer than Killian, and all in all he hadn't spent more than two months with the notorious serial killer. But two months can be a long time, when you spend them locked in a cell, and Emma had figured that it was a good place to start. It was not that she was thrilled to meet with another murderer, but Killian Jones had already made her see the absurd side of the world, and what worse could happen?

Jefferson didn't exactly chill her blood like her Ripper had. He was not so arrogant and passionate about crime and besides, he was insane – really insane. Insane enough so that it made sense for him to have slaughtered half a dozen people, because only mad people resort to murder – not people who can be charismatic and who seem to tell you that they're the sane ones, and all of those naively wandering on the bright side of the world are blind.

Emma's skin still covered up with gooseflesh when they brought him in. The look in his eyes was vacant, and there was a smile on his lips that made her feel as though she would never sleep peacefully again.

She waited for the guards to have gone and for Jefferson's eyes to be half-focused on her – there didn't actually seem to be a focus, in those dead eyes. The man that she was looking at gave her the impression of a dead shell, inexplicably filled with the live spirit of a demon, very much like a terrifying jack-in-the-box would spring out of an inanimate socket.

"Hello Mr. Jefferson." Emma heard how frightfully shy her voice was and cleared her throat. "I'm here to talk to you a bit about your former cellmate, Killian Jones. Anything that you can tell me would be helpful."

Silence was the only answer she got. She waited for a few minutes that seemed to tarry.

"Mr. Jefferson –" Emma gasped despite herself when the inmate pressed both hands against the glass between them. The loud thump interrupted her and she didn't have any air left in her lungs to speak again. The chains of his cuffs made a rattling sound when he lifted his hands.

"You're his Goldilocks, aren't you? The Ripper, he talked about you. You're that little girl he caught, wandering about the looking glass." Jefferson drew back in his chair and pointed a finger at her. There was dirt under all of his fingernails. "You're Emma Swan."

Emma stiffened despite herself.

"He said you might be coming. He told me 'Maddy I'm not too fond of all this gray, I think I'm going to go'. The clock was ticking and ticking and I was starting to think you would be late."

"What can you tell me about Killian?" Emma clenched her teeth and struggled to sound polite – there was something inside of her that was trying to be heard, trying to say that she should truly leave all this behind before she couldn't. Before her life had become as absurd as the man she was trying to find.

The smile on the inmate's face contrasted with the visible sadness in his eyes, as if he was truly a victim of his own insanity – as if the monster in him was simply beyond his control.

"Careful, Goldilocks. You're standing on the verge of a gateway to a very wicked Wonder World. I once walked past it and let the glistening surface draw my eyes. Whether or not I fell, I suppose you can guess."

"I'm in need of no warning, Mr. Jefferson."

"And yet here you are. You need not to look for your Ripper, he will come looking for you, and I suggest you don't respond to him. Once you fell down those deep waters, Miss Swan, there is no climbing back to the surface." A wry grin distorted the features of Jefferson's face and the low laughter that left his mouth almost seemed to escape him – to escape the fracture he had allowed to shatter his reasonable self. "A dark one he was, that Ripper. Tell me, Emma Swan – do you think that you can catch him without becoming dark in the process?"

…

The second call happened in the middle of the day. Emma had left the Penitentiary of Storybrooke shaken that afternoon and with the thought in mind that she would never step foot in it again. She was uncertain what it was about Mr. Gold's prison that she ended up needing inevitably. Perhaps it was beyond her control, too.

He called while she was driving home, just about when she was parking in the driveway.

She picked up and an immediate pang spread through her chest, as though she could feel Killian Jones's presence, miles away from here, wherever he was – as if that piece of her that he owned was catching fire.

"Killian." She spoke his name even though he had not made a sound to prove it was him calling and even though if she was wrong and it was actually someone else, she had just incriminated herself. That thing in her that Killian Jones had forced into bondage only responded to her master's call. She was not wrong.

"It's a pleasure to hear from you again, Emma Swan. I hope you'll forgive the delay, I had a few things to take care of to ensure my discretion in town. I don't know whether you have tried to contact the police about our interaction but from now on I'm afraid you'll find me untraceable."

"I haven't contacted the police."

"Yes, I figured you wouldn't."

Emma clenched her teeth tightly. It was all she could think of doing to anchor herself to the real world. "Why take the risk?"

"I assume because I'm curious what will happen. I am very much guilty of the same fault as you, Emma, I've always been fascinated with paradoxes – my world is not for people like you and yours is not for me, and yet I feel something inexplicable drawing me to it. I can't decide whether I'll draw you in or you'll draw me out or if both of us will drown."

"I have no intention of doing any of the three."

"And yet you came to me, not the other way round. Tell me, Emma, do you see yourself entering that prison for the first time and wonder why you did it? So many of us don't get a choice concerning what prison we grow into – you had loving parents and no doubt a very loving sweetheart, didn't you? Wedding plans, or so I've heard."

Gooseflesh covered Emma's skin at the mention. For some reason, it was the first time it occurred to her that to get close enough to catching Killian Jones, he would need to get close to her.

"You could have had all this, Emma, the happiness and the dull glimmers of ordinary life. And yet one morning you woke up and you decided to break into my world. Into my _mind_. You should be able to understand why I've done the same thing."

"Fair enough. Where is this going?"

"Well, aren't you curious anymore? There is no excuse or required topic as there was in prison and we have all the time in the world, Emma Swan."

Emma clenched her teeth to repress a shudder. Every time that he spoke her name, she thought that she might end up hating it.

"All right." She pondered what it was that he wanted her to ask for a short while. The answer came as rather obvious. "Why did you kill them? What makes somebody angry enough to take a life?"

"Why should it have anything to do with anger? Murder is not an appropriate response to whatever animosity we can feel towards someone. It has nothing to do with it at all."

"You called it passion when we first talked about it."

"There can be nothing more passionate." He agreed.

"But there're a number of things that you could have done to go about it." Emma tightened her lips together before she said it; she was certain he had known that she would guess. "It's about power."

A kind of sorrow overwhelmed her as she said the words. Maybe because this did not only apply to Killian Jones – because, at different scales, this was the first principle that applied to the real world and to the irrational world. Maybe because she was coming to the ultimate and inevitable conclusion that there was only one.

Anger made her clench her jaw and tainted her voice. "Power is the only language that you men understand."

"It is the way of the world, love. Not the way of men. Men but follow the law of the jungle through different interpretations, sometimes soft and sometimes cold. Women are not an exception and neither are you." He let out a slight burst of laughter, as if all of this were his private joke. "Yes, I believe that I have seen dozens like you."

"Then why did you bother to call?" She didn't ask to defy him, truly. Emma never meant to be defiant and yet more often than not, she ended up giving sharp retorts when she felt endangered or angry. Defying a serial killer couldn't be a smart thing to do. Perhaps Emma Swan was not such a smart girl after all.

There was something slightly dryer into Killian's tone – that arrogant, honey-tone that could probably charm anyone into selling their souls. "Well, there's nothing that makes sense about obsession." He replied. "Desire follows no rule or law. Have a good day, Goldilocks."

Emma let go of her phone when he hung up, as if it were the carrier of a deadly transmittable disease. She got out of her car and opened the front door of her house; it was unlocked.

"Neal?" She called out with a certain apprehension.

Instead when she stepped into the living room, she discovered an uncapped stick of red lipstick that lay on the carpet as evidence. The wall mirror had been scribbled on and the immediate sight of it chilled Emma's blood.

The message painted on the glistening glass read: 'Welcome'.


	7. Swan Lake

**AN:** I'd really like to say thank you for all the awesome feedback I've been getting. I realize I took longer to update than usual, I'm actually in the middle of my exams but I'll try to be quicker with the next chapter. Hope you'll enjoy and review!

_"__I won't stand in your way, let your hatred grow… and she'll scream, and she'll shout, and she'll pray, and she had a name, yeah she had a name."_

Muse, _Stockholm Syndrome_

…

"So you say that all you found was the note."

"Yes. I was coming home, I found that the door was unlocked and there it was." Graham looked at her fixedly for a while. "Aren't you going to write down my statement?"

The first thing that Emma had done was actually calling the cops. It hadn't hit her that maybe her ripper was watching her or that it was not a smart thing to do in the long run. There had been a murderer inside of her house, and when you feel that your life might be threatened, calling the police is the thing to do. Emma Swan still considered that she was a smart woman.

Graham let out a slight sigh, not a weary one, she didn't actually know what to make of it. "The thing is, Emma, you've called to tell me that this was about the Driveway Ripper. Now, I will write down all you have to say and you can state that there was an intruder in your house, but I honestly don't see why you would think it was Killian Jones."

Emma assessed the look on the Sheriff's face. She took it that he wasn't being completely straight with her, and that was exactly because he knew that she wasn't either.

She thought she would have to be very careful about the next words she would speak. "Maybe I am being a little paranoid."

"When I first asked you about him, you didn't hint that you were worried he might come after you."

"I wasn't. It's just – what he wrote, it echoes with some of the things he's told me during our visits, in prison."

"What things?" Graham exhaled at her silence – he could have almost smiled, out of disbelief, but since he had started dating Regina Mills, he had not truly smiled again in his life. "The deal is simple here, Emma, if you want me to take you seriously, you're going to have to stop being vague."

The young woman clenched her jaw. She was so tired of making deals with people. "I'm not." She argued. "I just – I've got a feeling that it's him."

"All right. Then I'm just going to ask you a few questions, and I hope that you'll remember that obstructing the catch of a serial killer is a federal crime."

Emma arched a brow, as if legal vocabulary would scare her now. As if she wasn't already going through the scariest experience of her life.

"Killian Jones has made no attempt to contact you, since he's escaped?"

"No."

She didn't feel guilty about lying. She was not protecting a wanted murderer, after all, she was only trying to catch him her own way. If there was the slightest chance that she could play Killian Jones, it needed to be by means that the police couldn't know about. Because to earn the trust of a dark one, you have to get them to believe that you've gotten to be dark yourself. If she came clean to the sheriff, he would either stop her or ask to be kept informed, and that was exactly the kind of mistake that her Ripper would find out about. She thought that he might just hear her speak one word, and he would know.

Graham held her eyes and she had a hard time not lowering hers. "Okay, now you're making me be the bad guy. What if I ask you something else, Emma. Earlier, you said that you found that note on your mirror when you were coming home. Coming home from where? I don't see a grocery bag anywhere here, and you haven't been to school in weeks."

A look of startle painted Emma's face. "You checked up on me?" She blamed herself for acting as though Graham was still that high school boy who liked following her home, calmly and actually without being shameful, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. She sighed and forced herself to look impassive. "I just wanted to take a drive."

"Okay. Where did you go?"

"Nowhere. I just wanted to get out for a while."

"Then I'm assuming if you have nothing to hide, you wouldn't have a problem if I called here again to ask you a few more questions about your visits with Killian Jones. If your fiancé picked up and I told him the reason why I was calling, I suppose there would not be a problem with that."

The look on his face remained of ice and Emma didn't say anything, the way a cornered animal decides to go down with as much dignity as he'll be allowed. Graham was always good at catching them. She remembered that in the schoolyard, in kindergarten, he used to pick up a small animal, a bug or a mouse, and he'd keep it in his pocket during class. She figured it made sense that he had grown up catching killers for a living, and that he could almost always tell when someone was lying to him, especially now – a cold nature can be an asset to detection, when some people stand in your way.

"It's not personal, Emma." He added unemotionally. "I just want you to tell me what you know that I don't. The reason why I checked up on you was that I thought you may have caught our killer's eye and that he might try to contact you again, and now I really think he has."

Emma said nothing for a while. "So you're not going to take my statement into account?"

"Not officially, no. I'll report there's been a breaking and entering, but I'd rather that Killian Jones got sloppier instead of more careful. He has every reason to leave town and if he didn't, I want him to think that we think he did. Emma?" He said after a short pause. "If he contacts you or if you have any reason to think that he's following you, I want you to tell me."

"Of course." She got up because she wanted this to be the end of their interview, but when she led him out, Graham turned around before reaching the door.

"Whatever it is you've undertaken, it's safer that you stop. You're never playing a killer, Emma, he's always playing you." He sighed, and this time it was weary, as if to say that he knew she would not let him help but that he wished he could anyway. "There are no more dangerous games to play than games of control with someone who kills."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't. Just try to be careful, Emma."

"I will call you if I need you, Graham." She said. "I trust that you'll have my back."

He smiled for a short moment. It was his first one in a while. "Well," he admitted, "we all had a thing for the high school queen."

…

Emma felt that the family dinner was more silent than usual. She was standing next to Neal, opposite her parents. Whenever she met Mary Margaret's eyes, it seemed to her that she was going to smother with her mother's worry. Her mom had never been the best person to keep a secret and Emma sometimes wished she hadn't told her anything about her meetings with Killian Jones, because this one secret had to be eating at her, and she wanted her mother to be at peace.

"Well." David Nolan said with a smile that Emma had always thought was the incarnation of charm and kindness. "The big day's coming nearer. I hope you both aren't too nervous."

"No." Emma said almost at the same time Neal answered "Not at all", and she thought that there was something that sounded nervous about it exactly. She hoped she was the only one to hear it. "Mom helped me pick the wedding dress last week." Emma added.

"Yes, it's gorgeous, really."

A silence followed Mary Margaret's awkward assertion. Emma wished her mother were a better liar. "Well," she said, putting on a smile, "I'm going to get dessert. Mom, come help me?"

Emma tried not to pay attention to the dubious look on her fiancé and her father's faces when they disappeared in the kitchen. The young woman let out an apologetic breath when she met her mother's eyes, once they were alone. "Look, I get that you're worried about me, but I'm doing fine."

"Worried? I'm not worried, Emma. I was worried during your first teenage parties, I was worried about alcohol and cigarettes and drugs, I am not worried about my daughter meeting with a deranged serial killer who is now on the run –"

Mary Margaret let out a sigh, and it actually wasn't reproving but desperate. Emma always felt strange, when she realized how young her mother looked. This one evening, she felt guilty as hell.

"How could you not tell us about this, Emma? You embarked on this insane adventure all on your own, with no regards as to what it might do to you – people like this, people like the Driveway Ripper, they're the kind that leave you a mark."

"I know that." These days, that mark had felt very, very dark.

"What were you thinking?"

Emma bit her tongue when she realized she had almost answered with Killian Jones's words – because in truth, she was only curious what would happen.

"I don't know." She admitted, and it must have sounded very confused because when her mother sighed again, it was a motherly sigh. Mary Margaret had gotten used to putting herself together when her daughter needed it. Sometimes, she thought that if she was hurt and that a look of terrible worry pervaded her daughter's face, she might forget her pain entirely in order to calm her down.

"Emma, I just want you to be safe. These past few weeks you've been acting so off, and I thought it would help me just to know what was the cause, but it's worse. I'm scared, Emma. Just please… tell me you're not going to continue down that road."

"I don't see what you mean, mom." She didn't even fully register that she was lying. "Killian Jones is gone, and I'm not going to go near a prison again."

The look of concern didn't leave Mary Margaret's face. She had always somehow been able to tell when something was wrong with Emma, when she was lying or playing an act, and it wasn't because her daughter was a bad liar. There had always been this curious connection between both women, which was inexplicable biologically speaking. Emma did no longer try to explain irrational things. All she knew was that her mother was bright in her new state of darkness, her family and fiancé were still there and yet somehow, they couldn't help her. They were all blurry from the water, above the surface of that other world that Emma had discovered. It didn't make sense to Emma to think that there was only just one world, made up of both good and evil. She thought that this might terrify her more than anything, because if it was so… she could never go back, of course.

Emma inhaled sharply. She was getting married in two weeks and she was going to go see Dr. Hopper to apologize for missing school. She was not covering the tracks of a serial killer, all that she wanted to do was catch him and she still thought she could. She did not feel _allegiance_ towards her Ripper.

And yet she was beginning to think that this sounded shallow, as shallow as the surface of the bright world. There had been a killer inside of her home and she had not told Neal, and he had a right to know. She was having phone conversations with a murderer on the run and Neal had a right to know. This was going too far. Part of her knew it.

But the obsession was always with her, like a bad habit, too strong to be shaken off. And so she only told her mother. "I'll be careful, mom."

"Just be safe, Emma." Was the reply.

…

"Was it me, or did something strange happen at dinner?"

Emma frowned with fake incomprehension. She decided she was just as bad a liar as her mother. "I don't see what you mean."

"Well, your mom looked a bit sick and you were acting awkward."

"Was I?"

The look that Neal gave her made Emma realize it was vain to try. He had probably known her too long for her to be able to fool him now.

"Just tell me, Em. Is it about the wedding?"

"Of course not."

"Is everything okay with you?"

"Yes. I –" She sighed at how blatantly the lie had come out. "I've just got a lot on my mind, Neal."

"Does that have to do with your visits at Storybrooke Penitentiary? You never told me why you stopped going." He remarked.

Emma's blood ran cold, just like that, as if while her fiancé was not aware that she was hiding something from him, she could convince herself that she wasn't.

"Like you said." She answered. "Visiting prisoners wasn't the ideal pre-wedding activity."

"I'm not saying I'm not relieved that you let it go. I just don't know why."

Emma met her fiancé's eyes. She had always thought that his face was the most honest she had set eyes on, and it didn't give her the will to lie to him. "We're both going to be okay, Neal. I can't tell you much more right now, but you need to trust me. All right?"

He let out a slight sigh, somehow not begrudging. "All right."

…

Killian had never even had a thing for blondes. Emma Swan was his type just the same, of course, and if he hadn't found her attractive right away when she had stepped inside his penitentiary it's likely that he would have ultimately, following her as closely as he did – because there was something utterly alluring about her demeanor.

Watching her and her boyfriend make love that evening, it seemed as clear as could be.

Emma's home address had been the easiest thing to find. Storybrooke was a small village and when you looked for someone hard enough there, it was only a matter of time, and usually a short one, before you found them. Killian wasn't unaware that this may also apply to him. Every cop in this town was looking for him, and he was not so eager to go back to jail.

Killian Jones's conduct had never been described as smart, technically speaking, he had not done everything in his power not to get caught and if he had he would not have been. The women that he had killed were all women that he had been with. Seducing them had been part of his hunt, and the last one had been quite a climax. Due to the atmosphere of terror and wariness that dominated Storybrooke before his arrest, she had made his task most difficult and ultimately her surrender had been by far the most enjoyable. It was one stage very dear to Killian. Another was the look of betrayal on the women's faces when he took off his mask.

His last woman had been a beautiful woman. She had a French name. Beautiful. He had driven to the border of Canada with her body in the trunk of his car and buried her under a pile of snow.

His current behavior was not a great deal smarter, in fact, not at all. Staying so close to Storybrooke was bound to put him back on the police's radar at some point, and his obsession with Emma Swan however legitimate would not help him stay free. But Killian had always gone for the most exciting option and at the time being, it was that golden-haired student of his. It did not matter that he was caught by justice. Killian did not think through such common terms. He had once fancied to charm young women and murder them, and now what he fancied was Emma Swan.

He had been suspicious of it for some time, and when he had stepped inside her home for the first time, he had been sure. He had discovered her universe and felt his predatory instincts awaken, he had opened her drawers without being hurried, stroked the immaculate cover of her double bed, and he had known that she had become his new game. He didn't see the point in going against it.

Killian shifted slightly in his position. Emma Swan's house was just at the edge of a small wood which Killian had immediately noticed, thinking that it would be a fine advantage for the second stage of his enterprise – observation.

He watched through the window of her bedroom from afar, and currently he was presented with a beautiful view on her back. He had always wondered what normal couple life was like. Deep inside of himself, Killian felt like an antipathetic boy trying to dissect romance.

He didn't wait until Emma's fiancé was asleep before he called. He wanted her to know he had been watching.

And she seemed to know it, somehow. She heard the telephone ring once, and he saw her body tense as if she had been immersed in iced water. Very, very dark waters. She had barely caught her breath from her recent activities and Killian thought this was good. He wanted to hear the breathlessness in her voice. He wanted her to feel that there was no safety or reprieve for her anymore, that she could not hide anywhere and not even in her fiancé's arms.

To own someone, you need to be the monster they dream of and the darkness that surrounds them. You need to become both their jailer and their cage.

She picked up, clutching the sheets against her chest, and the fiancé seemed to grow concerned at her side. The couple didn't look like good match at all to Killian. The boy was the image itself of plainness and he could never understand half of the woman he was about to marry.

Killian understood. The woman knew and probably hated him for it.

Emma picked up and he heard her let out a breath. It sounded scared and ragged and incomprehensive, because without being able to explain why, she had known it was him calling.

Killian straightened the binoculars to zoom in on Emma's face. He paid no attention to the fiancé.

"The White Swan or the Black Swan?" He said to begin with.

He heard her drag in a breath again. She was probably trying to reason with herself and failing. "I don't know what you mean."

"Well, it seems to me that you're caught between the two, at the time being. You've seen a bit of my world now and while you're dancing between the darkness and the light like a ballerina, I don't think you have an idea how close you are from the fall – and once you've fallen, love, the choice is definitive."

He watched her clench her jaw. You had to respect the woman's spirit. It got him feeling a bit awed, looking at her unbroken temper. He couldn't decide whether his aim was to save her or break her. Maybe he would only stop her in her deadly prance to set her on fire and watch her burn.

"Let me put it in different words. You've been playing with me, love, and I don't want you to think that I mind – no, it's been quite swell, really. But as smart as you think you are, I think you know that you can't play me without getting played as well. You've been dipping your toes in the water and now it's difficult to stop, isn't it? They are fine waters, yes. It's difficult for me, too. Answer my question now, Goldilocks. The White Swan or the Black Swan?"

"Where are you?"

"You know where I am. I've been with you ever since you walked out of my prison, and you've been with me, and I'm not getting out of your skin until you've gotten out of mine. There's no more time to hesitate now, sweetheart, you've just run out, I'll warn you – no good comes out of wandering in a world that isn't yours. It'll make you his, soon enough. White or Dark, Emma? It's about time you stopped pretending."

He watched her straighten up on her bed. Her fiancé had to be going wild but she looked straight ahead, out her window, until although Killian knew she could not see him, it felt like she did. His mouth broke into a smile.

"Dark it is." He concluded.

The next second, she hung up on him.


	8. What She Wished For

**AN: I apologize for how long it took me to update again, I've had little time for myself these days, and I would also like to thank you all for the amazing feedback! Reviews are always what reminds me that I've got this story going on ; )**

**…**

_'__Last thing I remember, I was running for the door, I had to find the passage back to the place I was before. "Relax said the night man, we are programmed to receive. You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave!"'_

_Hotel California_

…

There are a number of things that can make you quit on an addiction. It all depends on how far deep you are, really. To Emma Swan, it had been quite simple.

Weeks ago, she had decided to study darkness and had realized that when you look long enough into it, it looks back at you. Her obsession with the absurdity of Killian Jones's world had stopped her from going back to hers, because she was uncertain she could ever return to the person that she had been for the first two decades of her life.

Now, this thought made no difference. She was quite certain that if she did not give this up at once, nothing would ever matter for her again. Realizing just how close she was from perdition had been a wakeup call, to Emma Swan. She could not both play the Ripper's game and plan her wedding, even in the sake of catching him. She could not be Neal's girl and remain caught between two worlds.

If she did not bury that obsession in the ground, it was going to bury her.

To realize that a deranged serial killer had witnessed her intimate life had been a fine proof of that. There were two weeks left before the wedding and Emma thought that it was high time she let it go.

She went back to college and apologized sincerely to Mr. Hopper. After that, things slowly seemed to be going back on tracks. She spent an hour testing cake fillings with her fiancé, one afternoon, and almost felt like a regular person.

When she saw her mother during their weekly rendezvous at Granny's, Mary Margaret let out a sigh that Emma could not believe she had been holding back all this time.

"I was so worried about you, Emma. I know you said you were fine, but just to see you going back to normal – I'm so relieved that this is over."

"You haven't told dad, have you?"

"Your father doesn't need my help to be able to tell that something's off with you." She gave it a moment's thought. "Well all right, maybe guessing that you've met with a loose killer would require explicitness –"

"Please mom, would you lower your tone?" It wasn't as if gossips didn't travel fast in Storybrooke.

"I'm just happy you're better, Emma."

The young woman didn't go against her mother's statement. She was better. She may sleep with the drapes shut and check that the door was locked several times during the night, it felt as if maybe things would go back to their natural course if she forced them to. She no longer took calls from unknown numbers and she was determined to abandon her obsession to seek out Killian Jones, should the latter be most reluctant to reciprocate the favor.

That evening she came home around five and found her fiancé in the living room. There was a stew cooking in the kitchen, Neal had always been the one who did the cooking and she had always enjoyed sharing meals with him – right now though, the slightly cold look on his face reminded her of the incident last week. The last time that Killian had called her in the middle of the night, Neal had gone out of control with worry, because she was visibly affected by the caller and still she refused to disclose his name.

Emma bit down on a sigh. She thought there was not a worse timing to fight with your fiancé than just a few weeks before D day.

"How was work?" She inquired. She was becoming quite the expert at pretending all was well.

"As usual. And school?"

"Okay. Mr. Hopper agreed to let me take another exam, I should be fine. My mother says hi." She added, because it seemed he was not so determined to continue with small talk.

The worst of it was, she knew it was legitimate for him to be angry. If someone had called him and put him in such a state, she would want an explanation as well. She simply could not deliver one.

She started wishing she had never been curious about what went on in a killer's mind. She wished she had never set eyes on Killian Jones and, far more to the point, that he had never set eyes on her. Now was a bit late for second thoughts.

"I love you." She said, and it drew a sigh out of her fiancé, almost drained from resent.

"Jesus, Em. We've had ups and downs before and I've seen you in many states, but the way that you've been acting these past weeks – how am I supposed to let it go without an explanation?"

"Because it's over." She answered right away. But it's not what the obsessive part of her thought about it. Since Emma had categorically refused to go anywhere that absurd road again, obsession had seemed to grow a voice and a will of its own.

Neal wouldn't understand, even if she explained it. He wouldn't understand, because the quest was as absurd as the result. She had been a happy woman with loving parents and a wonderful fiancé, and suddenly she had woken up one morning and decided to put an end to it.

Of course, she could find excuses for herself and she had gathered a number of them. She could not have known what her meeting with Killian Jones would lead to. She could not have predicted his escape or his obsession for her. But even so… she could have stopped. This much was becoming undeniable. After meeting with the notorious murderer, she could have never stepped foot in the prison again. Her teacher and the eerie prison warden seemed determined that prison was not a befitting world for her, and there was truly no reason why she had so endeavored to prove them wrong.

She could have stopped.

When Killian had called her that first time in the middle of the night, she could have called Sheriff Graham and told him everything. Instead of throwing herself in a game of hunting with a serial killer, she could have let it go. There was no telling why she hadn't. Just like, right now, even though this had been the most alienating experience of her life and she had no desire to return to it, she was afraid she might.

There was no way that her fiancé could understand that. She was probably too dark for him now. With that look of concern and honest love on his face, he did not seem to agree.

"Do you swear?" He asked.

"Yes." She replied without thinking, because Neal had a right to his peace of mind and she thought she was saying the truth anyhow.

He looked down and only half looked convinced, but she believed he would let it go – if he honestly believed it was in the past and that she was safe, he might let it go.

She smiled at him and he smiled back, one second all was right in the world and the next it was coming apart. The sound of her telephone ring started acutely from the bottom of her purse and Emma's eyes went to it directly. She nearly forgot about her fiancé's presence until he inquired. "Aren't you going to answer that?"

She wouldn't have, normally. But although Neal's tone was anything but challenging, it felt like she should show a casual behavior. She picked up her phone and swallowed nervously. It was an unknown number.

"Miss Swan."

The voice that greeted her at the other end of the line was not Killian's, which was a relief, however it drew goose bumps on her skin and filled her with an icy cold, as was the usual effect that the warden of Storybrooke Penitentiary had on her.

"Mr. Gold." She replied. There was an uneasy ring to it as always and she was quite sure that he caught it. Neal's brows furrowed during the conversation and she did her best not to make note of it. She thought that she really ought to be cordial to her interlocutor – her habits as a well-educated girl had been quick to come back. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"It is actually business I am concerned about." He answered on such a casual tone that she could not find his answer threatening. "Something about our previous meetings and that I would not see fit to handle over the phone. If you would be so kind as to grant me an hour of your time, I would be most grateful, Miss Swan – truly, very grateful."

Emma waited for a moment and knew it looked like hesitation. She did not have a remote wish to return the prison, she thought it might be unhinging to her newly recovered stability if not dangerous. And yet part of her knew she would agree. It was the polite thing to do, really.

"Of course." She said ultimately.

"I most appreciate it. Shall we say – around six?"

"Yes."

"I'll see you then, Miss Swan."

Emma hung up her phone and turned it off. Neal was studying her thoroughly. "That was the prison warden, for your thesis."

"That's right." She answered although he had not made it sound like a question.

"What does he want to see you for?"

"I don't know. Probably just a matter of formalities."

"You're not seeing a prisoner again."

This one got a full sigh out of her. "Come on, Neal. It's not like I'm hiding a lover."

"Not at all," he agreed, "you're doing a terrible job at hiding him."

The pair stared at each other for a moment and her lips broke into a smile – she had known Neal for too long, so that any distrust between them could only seem ludicrous.

…

On the next day she drove to the prison, after class. The road was far too familiar and it brought anxiety on its way, not that Emma believed it was justified, at the time. She would find out what the warden wanted with her and she would drive back home, and never set a foot in this institution again.

Mr. Gold greeted her with an amiable smile. There was truly something disturbing about the thin line of his lips and the way the ends always seemed to want to go down, even when he forced them up. She was quite certain there was nothing more unnatural in the world than the warden's smile. But that was just irrational thinking.

"Miss Swan, thank you again for coming. Please, do sit down."

Although she did not wish to comply and every passing second made her more uncomfortable, she took a seat on the chair opposite his desk. She had forgotten how strange the atmosphere of this office was. How it did not feel like a place of professional interactions or even business, but truly a place of power. Atypical power. Absolute, somehow.

"Well." He started. "It's been quite some time since our last interview. I've been wondering what you had made of the short time you had been granted with Killian Jones's cell mate, as I recall you were quite determined for it to happen."

"Right." Emma pondered on how to approach this for a moment. "Actually, much like you have suggested, there was not much to draw from the conversation."

"May I ask where the remnants of your investigation led you?"

Emma felt very uneasy that he mentioned it. She was hoping to indulge in the lie that she had never gone to this prison without a solely professional purpose in mind. "I found it safer to end it."

Another smile settled on Adam Gold's lips. This time, genuinely amused – in between amusement and sheer coldness.

"And what about our deal, dearie?"

The direct question brought incomprehension, strengthened by the unusual appellation. "I don't see what you mean."

"No? When you walked in here and asked to meet with Maddox Jefferson, I told you that every agreement needed a quid pro quo. Actually, when you first asked to have regular interviews with one of my prisoner, I have also underlined, I believe, that this would work on a bit of give and take. And yet I fear you have failed to fulfill your end of the deal, in many ways."

"Excuse me?"

"You were to give me reports about the insight that your meetings with Killian Jones provided, you have not. You were to inform me of anything you found out about his whereabouts or his intentions, after his escape, something which you have also failed to achieve."

"I don't think these were the exact terms of our agreement."

The coldness in Emma's voice seemed to enlarge the grin on the warden's face. "I am not mistaken. I have made you several favors which you did not reciprocate, in other words, your debt to me has amounted to quite a sum. I'm afraid you must start paying."

Startle was all that Emma experienced for a moment, before rationality crept in – the short man sitting opposite her held no power over her and it was not really as though, through the course of spoken agreements, she had sold him her soul.

"I'm sorry for the misunderstanding." Was all she found to reply.

He did not smile this time. For some reason, it was disturbing. Emma had never been comfortable in the man's presence and deep down she had always felt that he was not simply an honest citizen, but she had known this in the irrational part of her mind – which of course, was not the truth.

To see the smile off Mr. Gold's face was like bringing down the curtain on a pretense. Like being at the theater and suddenly having one of the actors turn to the audience and say: I see you.

You knew they were acting, of course. But their acknowledgement of it makes yours inevitable.

"There was no misunderstanding." He affirmed. The turn of his lips was no longer forced upwards and the look in his eyes was dark. "The reason that I allowed you to breathe the air circulating in my prison was that I believed you could amuse our dear Ripper into revealing details about his crimes. After his escape, I had suspicions that he might try and contact you. I have spoken to Jefferson myself a few minutes after you left the visitation room, and he gave me quite a speech about your game of hide and seek. Do believe, Miss Swan, that I never do anything that is not in my own interest. Did you think I was simply tolerant of your curiosity?"

A smile stretched his lips again, but this time, it was not just unsettling – the farthest thing from his mind was to appear as a Good Samaritan. It was a smile that belonged to terrible wonder worlds and dark sea creatures, a smile that belonged to what Emma had decided was the imaginary half of the world.

It was wicked. Maybe only because of the horrified look on the young woman's face.

"You have been lying lavishly these days, dearie, which would not be so bad if you were being precautious about it. I believe that if I ask you whether or not you have been in contact with Killian Jones since his escape, you will tell me no, but if I make an anonymous call to the Storybrooke police and claim that you have, they will find several calls through your phone records that come from a remote phone booth or an untraceable number, and you will be quite incapable of telling them the identity of the caller. Just as well, if I call the press tomorrow and tell them that you and I have been working on catching Jones, one particular Ripper might get slightly cross. Really… _you_ were mistaken if you believed that I did not own you, from the very moment that you walked through these gates."

Startle kept Emma silent. For a moment, she was only surprised, not by the threat, but by the fact that the man she had met several times cordially was evil, and she had somehow managed to convince herself that she did not know it. She thought that just because he had been smiling and polite, she had buried the discomfort that he naturally summoned. And she thought that if a charming stranger had politely made conversation and offered to drive her home one day, even if the town had been terrorized by a murder wave, she might have let him.

She truly thought she was not any less blind than at the beginning or more cautious than any of Killian Jones's victims. Perhaps because not to be would involve acknowledging that the world was not so normal as she had once thought – and it was about time she started believing.

She clenched her jaw as harshly as if she were made of iron. "You're blackmailing me."

The warden's smile became polite again. "I'm just a regular business man, my dear. All I want is Killian Jones, back in my prison, something which I'm sure you agree on. Our interests may still be common for some time to come, why not make the most of it?"

Emma Swan said nothing, but deep down inside of her, she thought that this was punishment. She thought that real wonder lands were not so wonderful as they were painted to be.

She thought she had first walked in here to find out what prison does to a normal mind, and she had got her wish.


End file.
